by Janie DeVos
After filling out more paperwork and saying a quick good-bye to my aunt, assuring her I’d be fine, I was escorted to the shower deep in the interior of the building. Every new arrival was required to take a shower, “Because,” the nurse’s aide informed me, “we can never be sure what’s carried in off the streets.” I objected because I’d just taken a shower that morning before getting on the train. My objection fell on deaf ears, however. The washing started out uncomfortably because it was overseen by an aide who stood sentinel outside of the shower, which had no curtain. But it became downright humiliating when she took the liberty of helping me wash those harder-to-reach areas, and quite invasively and roughly so.
As I was being scrubbed raw, I told the aide that if she rubbed any harder, I was sure she’d draw blood, to which she laughingly replied that it wouldn’t be the first time. With that, I firmly stripped the bar of harsh soap from her hand, not saying a word as I did so, but pinning her with a look which promised that should she try to continue to wash me, I might not be the only bloodied one by the time the shower was over. She not only allowed me to finish washing myself, but silently handed me the shampoo bottle when I handed the offensive lye-smelling soap back to her. Once I was done, she gave me a towel, which I used to dry myself without her assistance. I was not allowed to put my street clothes back on; they would be thoroughly laundered and returned to me later. Instead, I was given a hospital gown, robe, and slippers to put on, then reminded to grab my purse and packet of paperwork, which I’d set on a chair, and told to follow her.
We exited the building through a tunnel system that connected every building of the facility. The tunnels were not only a convenient way of moving from place to place while staying out of the elements, but also provided the facility’s heating system. Large pipes snaked their way through the tunnels’ ceilings, piping hot air into each building on the property. I noticed that there was also a steel cable strung along close to the top of the tunnel, and running the length of it. The cable seemed to be some kind of pulley system, with large hooks hanging down and spaced a couple of feet apart from each other. “What are those used for?” I asked.
“To move stuff,” she answered.
“What kind of stuff?”
“Just stuff. Equipment, giant bags of food, bodies . . .”
“Bodies!” I slowed down.
The aide turned to look at me. “Miss, this ain’t the Ritz. Folks are here ’cause they’s sick. Some are lucky enough to make it out on their own two feet, while others need a little help. So”—she pointed toward the pulley system—“we help ’em get out.” She laughed at her dark humor. “It ain’t good for the other patients to see folks they know being pulled out of here on a stretcher and shoved into a hearse. We try to be thoughtful and do it so’s they can’t see ’em go.
“Now, let’s talk about the livin’ part instead of the dyin’.” As we continued on toward the building where I would be housed, she proceeded to explain the daily regimen of meal times, rest times, social time (if permitted), and bedtime. She told me there was a schedule in the packet of information that I’d been given at the administration building, so there was no need to worry about forgetting it. That was a good thing since I heard only half of what she was saying. My eyes and mind were still stuck on the hooks and pulley system above us.
When we finally reached the TB ward, I was introduced to the nurse there, Dana Montane. The first thing she said after greeting me was that I was to call her Dana. “I only know my mother-in-law as Mrs. Montane. Anyone calls me that, I take it as an insult!” She laughed warmly. Dana was quite tall and reminded me a little bit of Jane Russell. She had thick, dark, wavy hair, much like mine, actually, but shorter. Her eyes were a soft brown, and her smile was genuine and comforting. She turned to the aide, thanked her for her help, and told her that she’d take it from there. Dana asked me a few basic questions, then suggested that I meet the other “girls” in my ward.
There were three patients in the ward at that time, the fewest, Dana explained, in the nearly twelve years she’d been there. The other patients were Roberta Truman, Annabelle Ryetower, and Peggy Porter. All three women stopped what they were doing when we walked in. Almost in unison, they greeted Dana, while looking me over with great interest. When Dana introduced me, Roberta and Peggy remained in bed, but Annabelle came over and shook my hand. She was a large woman, not fat but solid, and she looked about as strong as she was tall. Her hair was medium length, parted in the middle and jet black. Her eyes were a perfect match. To some, her gaze might have seemed hard, but she reminded me of an eagle, ever alert and ready to react. She looked both intelligent and energetic. In looks and temperament, she reminded me of an exotic gypsy.
Dana pointed out my bed by the window, and the nurse call-button attached to my headboard, which would ring at the nurses’ station should I ever need assistance, day or night. Then, she walked me over to the lockers at the far end of the ward, showed me which one was mine, and told me that I’d be given the combination number for the lock on it. With relief, I saw that my suitcase had been placed in it. It had obviously been brought up by an aide while I was showering. There were hangers for my clothing, cubby holes for incidentals, a fresh bar of soap, toothpaste, and shampoo.
“So,” Dana continued, “that’s all of the grand tour for now.” She smiled at me, gauging, no doubt, how I was handling my orientation to this new place, to this new life. “You okay?” She placed her hand on my shoulder and looked at me closely. There was genuine concern in her voice and eyes.
“Supper will be served shortly,” she said after glancing up at the clock on the wall. There were two in the ward, one at each end. “I hope you’re hungry, kiddo. ’Cause if you’re not, they’ll give you something to make sure you are. We like our patients to be as plump as little piggies.” She laughed, and I knew there was no sarcasm or condescension in her remark. I could tell in just the short time that I’d been with her that she truly cared about her patients, or “her girls,” as she often called the women on her ward. “From just looking at you, I think you’re strong enough to go to the dining room tonight, rather than having a tray brought to you. If Dr. Ludlow wants you on complete bed rest, then he can order that tomorrow, but tonight you’ll go with Roberta and Annabelle to the dining room.” Then, turning to Peggy, she asked if she knew how long Dr. McCann had ordered total bed rest for her. Indefinitely, Peggy answered. “Well, hopefully that’ll change before too long. Just keep doing what he wants you to do, Peg, and you’ll be right as rain.” Her words said one thing, while her eyes said another. Dana wished us all a good night then, and left the room.
I put my pocketbook and paperwork in my locker, but brought the rule book back to bed with me. I saw the women taking glances at me as I moved about, but they said nothing. When they did speak, it was only to each other and quietly so. They later explained to me that they tried to be respectful of new patients because not everyone was in a chatty mood when they first arrived, and they understood that. They’d learned to give the newcomers a little space in which to settle themselves or, perhaps, resign themselves to their new situation.
I sat down in the chair next to my bed, with the rule book in my lap, conscious of the quiet conversation taking place around me. I didn’t think they were talking about me, but it made me uneasy that no one had addressed me other than to say hello. This first night would be even longer if I didn’t try to break the ice. “Have any of you actually read this thing?” I asked, holding up the rule book.
“I got to chapter three.” Annabelle jumped right in, as though she’d been hoping I’d speak up. “After that, I only used it as a sedative to put me to sleep.” They all laughingly agreed.
“That’s the truth,” Peggy piped in. She was sitting up in bed, but remained under her covers. She had not gotten up since I’d come in. She looked all of eighteen but was actually twenty-five, as was Annabelle. The two of them had gone through grammar and high school together. Then, after havi
ng gone their separate ways after graduation, with Peggy marrying her high school boyfriend and settling down to raise a family in Asheville, and Annabelle moving on to the University of Georgia to earn a degree in art history, the two had had a bittersweet reunion at Pelham. They had been admitted within weeks of each other, three months ago.
Peggy Porter looked like a living porcelain doll with her long, flaming red hair, fair skin, and pale blue eyes. Her husband, Joseph, I learned, was a foreman at one of the quartz mining companies outside of Fork Mountain, and was doing an admirable job working his way up the ladder despite his young age. Peggy had worked part-time at the library but otherwise stayed at home, contentedly playing the part of housewife and hoping to start a family right away. After a couple of frustrating years of trying, she’d gotten pregnant and it seemed as though they were finally on their way to starting the large family they’d dreamed of having. But tragedy struck when Peggy tested positive for TB. She had been showing signs of the illness for quite some time before it was finally confirmed, but she had waited to be tested for it because she’d thought her increasing fatigue was due to the pregnancy and her weight loss to a lengthy case of morning sickness. But her suspicion that it might be something other than the symptoms of early pregnancy were verified with the onset of the first bloody phlegm. By the time she saw the doctor about it, both lungs were infected with tuberculosis, and the disease was rapidly progressing. She had multiple lesions and three cavities, two of which were quite large. Rounds of antibiotics were immediately started and she was admitted to Pelham within a week. Six days later, Peggy lost the baby. She was devastated, which didn’t help her recovery process, and everyone wondered if the heaviness of her despair over the miscarriage was taking more of a toll on her than the tuberculosis was. From what Annabelle would later tell me, Peggy had always been the soft-spoken, shy girl in class, but never so withdrawn. However, along with the loss of her child came the loss of her interest in life, for the doctors had told her that it was unlikely that she could, or should, conceive again. Overnight, it seemed her once bright blue eyes had dimmed to a pale shade.
Roberta Truman, whose bed was just two over from mine, had gone to the bathroom, which was at the far end of the room. As she was making her way slowly back down the aisle between the ward’s two rows of beds, she was obviously listening. “Listen,” she said, crawling back beneath her covers, “if you need something to read, we have stacks of books. All the rules you’ll need to know are in one of those little pamphlets in that packet of paperwork they gave to you on intake. That’s pretty much the ABCs of what you can and cannot do.”
Roberta was middle-aged, rounder and shorter than the rest of us. Her hair was thick, rather short, and light brown. Her eyes were almost identical in color. At first impression, she seemed upbeat and friendly, but I was later warned that one of the things that kept her energy level up was gossip. It wasn’t just limited to the women in our ward; every patient was fair game for her wagging tongue.
Later that evening, when Roberta was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, Annabelle advised me to keep letters, diaries, anything personal that I wanted to keep private, out of sight or locked up. Otherwise, there was a pretty good likelihood that Roberta Truman would find them.
“Tell you what,” Roberta continued. “Let’s save Kathryn the aggravation of having to read the rule book or any of that other baloney! Ladies, how ’bout we recite a few of those rules we know all too well. Rule number one: ‘No whining. There is never a valid excuse for a patient to whine. It benefits no one.’ And most especially the staff,” she sarcastically added.
Annabelle spoke up. “And rule number two, ‘No crying in front of the other patients.’ For God’s sake, never do that,” Annabelle dramatically amended. “ ‘And do NOT, under any circumstances, discuss your illness. It only depresses the other patients.’ Or so says rule number three in the book.” Peggy started laughing at Annabelle’s animated recitation, which led to a serious coughing fit, though no one paid much attention.
“Is she all right?” I quietly asked Roberta.
“Good heavens, no!” she answered, which struck all of them as extremely funny, all but me. It seemed insensitive and callous. I couldn’t know at the time, however, that their so-called callousness and insensitivity were small pieces of armor in their constant battle to survive, both emotionally and physically. The rules about no whining and no crying were supposed to help the patient maintain a positive attitude. But what had been forgotten was that these rules applied to human beings, and human beings had emotions that required expression, in one way or another. And if the rule-makers vetoed the right to cry and complain, then the patients found other ways to purge their feelings, through humor, sarcasm, and at times, downright defiance.
“Rule number four,” Annabelle continued. “This one’s my favorite. ‘Interaction with patients of the opposite sex should be kept to a minimum, and should only take place at appropriate times and in appropriate situations; such as during social events, activity time, or in classes. Under no circumstance will sexual behavior of any sort be tolerated. Any violation will be cause for immediate discharge, and denial of future admission to the institution.’ ” She wagged her finger at us. “So forget cousining, y’all.”
“What’s ‘cousining’?” I’d never heard the expression before.
“That’s what the san—the sanatorium—calls a little tryst,” Annabelle continued. “You know, a little one-on-one time—literally and figuratively speaking.” Everyone laughed, including me. “It’s not really cousins having fun together,” she explained. “That’s just the name someone at the san gave it.” Suddenly, she grew quite serious. “Look, sugar, people get lonely in this place. The average age of people with TB is between fifteen and forty-five. Now, I don’t know how old you are, but I feel fairly certain that it’s somewhere between those ages. Hormones are bouncing around, and in all honesty, folks are bouncing off the walls ’cause they’re sexually frustrated and seriously bored. They’re missing home, their children, and their spouses. And, most especially, their spouses’ big—”
“Rule number five,” Peggy quickly interrupted, giving her close friend a reprimanding look. She’d finally stopped coughing but was hoarse and still winded. She wanted to take part in the camaraderie, though, which earned my respect early on, and she never once caused it to falter. “‘The consumption of alcohol is strictly forbidden. Possess—’” She began to cough again so Annabelle finished for her.
“ ‘Possession of it will result in an immediate discharge.’ Well, hell, ladies, I don’t know about y’all, but a highball would sure do me good about now. How ’bout it!” And with that, Miss Annabelle Ryetower, once the lovely dark-haired, dark-eyed belle of the ball from the upper crust of Asheville, whipped out a half-empty bottle of Old Crow whiskey from beneath some clothing in her nightstand drawer.
It seemed each rule, or deviation from it, was more surprising than the last. “How’d you get that in . . . ?”
“She’s got rich beaus,” Peggy quickly explained. “They’d do anything for her.” Peggy looked downright proud of Annabelle for having that kind of sway with men.
Holding it high for all of us to see, as if it were a fresh scalp, Annabelle practically did a pirouette across the floor to the pitcher of ice water that Dana had filled and set on my nightstand.
“Everyone hand me your glass,” she said, going from bed to bed with both bottle and pitcher before returning to her own.
“Only a tad for me, but straight up,” I said, laughing as I held my cup while she poured.
“Just a smidge for me, too.” Peggy looked like a naughty child at a slumber party.
Roberta said she’d take what we didn’t want, and after pouring herself a hefty amount as well, Annabelle held her glass high. “To the bugs!” She tossed her whiskey back.
“Bugs?” I didn’t much like them and definitely not enough to toast them.
“We’re the bugs.” Peggy laug
hed, looking flushed after having her “smidge.” “That’s what they call us, ’cause we have the bug—the crude, the virus, the disease, whatever you want to call it. We’re known as bugs.”
That unsettled me badly. I didn’t know what to say. So, that was how society saw us—no better than bugs? I tossed my shot back, then held out my glass for a refill. Annabelle kindly obliged.
CHAPTER 12
Patients and Patience
Annabelle and Roberta drank two full drinks, while I, apologetically, couldn’t finish my second one, nor Peggy her first. Whether by coincidence or not, her coughing subsided, and I was glad for the poor little thing. Just in the short time I’d been around her, I’d seen her tire, which wasn’t surprising given the violent nature of her hacking cough.
“Well, ladies, that wraps up cocktail hour for this evening. Shall we get ready to dine?” Annabelle had stored away her bottle and was in the midst of a vigorous stretch. She was already dressed, but Roberta, Peggy, and I were in our pajamas.
“Give me a sec,” Roberta said as she headed for her locker, which spurred me in that direction, too.
“Peggy, you aren’t able to come?” I asked her as I was attempting to zip up the back of my dress. Watching how the other women were dressing, I’d chosen a simple, long-sleeved brown dress with white piping along the hem and rounded collars. It was plain and conservative, but the last thing I wanted to do was stand out, and most especially on my first night there.
“Here, turn around,” Annabelle said when she saw me struggling. “Peggy’s on FBR—full bed rest. She can’t leave the room except for tests. If her doctor knew she was drinking and gettin’ all excited this afternoon, he’d shoot us all. They’ll bring a tray in for her any minute.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to Peggy, though I wasn’t sure why. But I felt sorry—sorry she was so ill, sorry she had to be left alone to eat, sorry her eyes had lost their brightness, sorry she was classified as a bug. Sorry, sorry, sorry! Unexpectedly, I felt my eyes welling up. “You need the bathroom right now?” I asked Roberta, who was standing just outside of it.